


The Miserables Month One Shot Collection

by RevocablePeril (PerihelionIcarus)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, F/M, Gen, M/M, Modern Era, One Shot Collection, Other, im not tagging everyone but all the amis are in there at least twice, one or two are romantic the rest are platonic or character studies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:02:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 15,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27331648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PerihelionIcarus/pseuds/RevocablePeril
Summary: 31 one-off pieces written for The Miserables Month, 2020, organized by PieceOfCait. Mostly amis-centric, but some other characters made their way in as well.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	1. Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OC. Modern era. An unmarked grave in Père Lachaise, that the reader may know, but Élodie does not.

Élodie is drawn to the cemetery, not for morbid curiosity or for any particular grave, but for one moment of peace from the din of passing cars and bustle of Paris. The tall, wet grass rustles underfoot and the branches of an old yew tree wave in the wind.

She takes a breath. Finally, some quiet. She makes a move to sit, but her foot falls upon a square of hard stone.

Élodie frowns and brushes the layer of dirt off the old grave. There’s no name. It is plain grey stone. Her heart clenches at this; the last resting place of a person she has never met and whose name she will never know.

“You are still remembered,” she says, brushing her hand on the weathered rock, where a long-faded poem was once scrawled in pencil. “And you are still loved.”

A warm breeze blows through Père Lachaise, tousles the curls of Élodie’s hair, and settles.

That evening, she sits in her flat, reading by candlelight. A firetruck siren wails all the way down her street and she grumbles, longing for the silence of the cemetery once more. Her mind wanders from her book to the memory of the unmarked grave she’d seen. It should be sad to be buried without a name, but she does not feel it.

She stares pensively at her candles and the candlesticks they rest in, antiques passed down through her family for generations. The flames dance in the tarnished silver. After all, Élodie thinks, there are other ways to be remembered.


	2. Scorch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joly/Bossuet. Modern era. Joly sees smoke rising from his apartment and knows Bossuet has had yet another accident.

Not for the first time, Joly arrives at his building to the distant sound of beeping. He looks up to his second-floor window, and sure enough, there’s a thin wisp of smoke floating out of it. He sighs, enters, and impatiently mashes the ‘2’ button on the elevator.

The smoke alarm gets louder the closer he gets to his own door and even despite the half-dozen times this has happened, Joly can’t help the creeping dread or his quickening pulse. _He’s fine_ , he tells himself, _It’s just the microwave again_. He pushes open the door.

He’s instantly relieved to see Bossuet conscious and on his feet, then progressively less relieved as he breathes in the smell of burning wood, takes in the great scorch marks on the kitchen table, and sees the state of Bossuet’s arm. There’s some thick white substance on it–shaving cream? Ointment? Bossuet, for his part, is trying to fan the remaining smoke out the window with a baking sheet.

Bossuet looks up when Joly comes in. He smiles, apologetically, the way he always does, and Joly’s heart unclenches instantly. He’ll be alright.

“What’s on your arm?” Joly asks, striding over, covering his nose. He quickly looks Bossuet head-to-toe for any other obvious hints of injury.

“Oh–toothpaste. I burnt myself,” Bossuet says, waving the arm in question.

“ _Toothpaste?_ Oh, darling, _no_.” Joly grabs Bossuet’s uninjured arm and drags him towards the kitchen sink. “Where did you read that? WebMD?”

“Uh. I don’t think so? It was some website, you weren’t home and I didn’t want to bother you at work so I just googled–”

“Please bother me next time,” Joly says. He turns on the tap and sticks Bossuet’s arm under the water. He begins to rub off the caked-on paste, which has already begun to dry. 

Bossuet sucks air through his teeth. “Ow.” 

Joly softens and sets his free hand on Bossuet’s back. “Sorry. Next time just…cold water. Like this. Or _call me_.”

“Look at you, all worried.” Bossuet grins.

“I am literally always worried about you being home alone.”

“I would say I can take care of myself, but.” Bossuet gestures vaguely.

“Yeah.”

“You’re not mad about the table?” 

Joly glances at it. The surface is blackened and still smolders in places, but– “It’ll live. You, on the other hand…”

Bossuet presses a gentle kiss to Joly’s cheek. “I’ll be fine. This time.”


	3. Quiet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gavroche. Canon era. The city is loud.

You might think that the empty spaces, closed off from the rest of the city, would be the places where you could go to get away from din of the chattering voices and the clip-clop of hooves, the wheels over cobbles, the unhappy _gamin_ ’s moan, the hawkers and all the argot and the man who yells “Stop, thief!”, and with it the whole time the gleeful pounding of little feet on the ground, but you would be wrong, for the empty places can be the loudest. 

Gavroche knows this far too well, since his home might be the loudest place he knows. The inside of the hollow elephant roars with an echo like heavy rain from the second you poke your head in. He doesn’t know why it’s so loud, but one day he moved in and then three weeks passed and that strange lack of quiet in what should have been the quietest place became the sound of home.

He never gets to like total silence, after that. Sometimes, when the day melts into night and back again without him climbing his ladder back to his bed, Gavroche will cup his hands over his ears. The effect it creates is not as loud, nor does it totally hide the distant laughter and whinnying horses and the scoff of the bourgeois, but something hollow roars all around, and it lulls him to sleep if he needs it.


	4. Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre. Modern era. He loves the ocean and all the secrets it holds.

Looking out over the waves, Combeferre imagines that, in some less troubled time or place, or perhaps elsewhere in the theoretical infinite multiverse, he might have become a marine biologist.

He knows he’s far from the only one out there. There’s something compelling about the profession, in which you might delve deep into the ocean, or delve deep into the DNA of an undiscovered microorganism, or both. It’s the unravelling of one of the world’s remaining mysteries; the prospect of learning about something that lives four thousand feet away from the open air, an old life but a brand-new fact that no one on Earth has ever known.

Besides, Combeferre thinks as the briny air blows into his face, the sea is beautiful. 

It’s why Combeferre had trained to be a lifeguard as a young teen, after all, in the hopes that he might one day spend more and more of his time on the coast. But that was before he had glasses that would catch the salt spray and leave him blurry-eyed, before he had poked around in the metaphorical soil and grasped the scale of the injustice, rooted too deep for one person to reach, before even he had met Enjolras or studied medicine or felt the desperate, clawing need to see something change in his lifetime.

Combeferre sighs. For now, the ocean can wait, and there are other brilliant minds in the world who will gladly take up the mantle. In this lifetime, his work will suffice.


	5. Metallic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras, Grantaire, and Bahorel. Modern era. Grantaire's about to do something very stupid.

“Yeah, ‘sup?”

“Bahorel? It’s Enjolras, you’re on speaker. Grantaire’s currently balling up an entire roll of aluminum foil and is going to shove the whole thing in his mouth and I need you to tell him to stop, right now. I’m not getting through to him.”

 _[Distantly.]_ “It was either one ball of alumimum foil or five golf balls.”

“Quiet, Grantaire.”

“…You’ve definitely called the wrong person for that. Now I have to hear what happens.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sa-”

_[Phone falling. Sounds of a struggle.]_

_[Faint choking noise.]_

_[Silence.]_

“Enj? R? One of you survive?”

_[Phone retrieved.]_

“I did. Grantaire is certainly dealing with the consequences of his own actions.”

“How did it taste?”

 _[A cough.]_ “Super metallic. Hey Enj, come over here and check out this imprint of my teeth.”

“No.”

“Text me a picture, R!”

“I’m hanging up on you.”

“Bye, don’t call an enabler next time!”

_[Click.]_


	6. Riches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean Valjean. Modern era. He's bad at using the internet.

_Be careful that no one entices you by riches; do not let a large bribe turn you aside.  
-Job 36:18_

Valjean rubs at his eyes, unused to staring at a lit screen for such a long period of time. As useful as the Google and the fire fox are for finding verses on whichever subject he might desire, making it increasingly easy to seek out specific guidance from the Good Book, the process of finding said guidance causes an ache in Valjean’s head that pulses right behind the eyes. His vision blurs, sometimes, and he imagines he might need glasses as a result of his piety. Cosette had taught him how to do this one day, when she caught him leafing through his paper bible, somewhere in Ecclesiastes, muttering to himself about finding a certain passage. She’d brought him her laptop and showed him how to turn it on. She’d explained to hold “Ctrl” and press “F”, pointing to the keyboard buttons one at a time. She’d even patiently waited for him to try it, write out “season” with his slow, two-fingered typing, and scroll the mouse down until he found the highlighted word. She’d smiled and bookmarked the internet web-site for him.

Valjean has his qualms about the internet, what with all the stuff he hears on the radio about security and privacy and identity theft that seems to be this big looming threat. But he thinks, as he scrolls on to read Proverbs 23:5, that something able to bring him instant advice from God in the morning cannot possibly be the dangerous monolith that the media makes it out to be.

Of course, that’s when he mis-clicks somewhere on the page, and a large window appears, blocking the verse he’d been reading. “Congratulations, you’ve won €6,000,000!!” it reads.

Valjean raises his eyebrows, ponders a moment, and chuckles to himself. He clicks “No Thanks”. The fire fox can send all that money elsewhere, to someone else who must need it far more than him.

_Cast but a glance at riches, and they are gone, for they will surely sprout wings and fly off to the sky like an eagle.  
-Proverbs 23:5_


	7. Crew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bahorel + les amis. Modern era. Bahorel gets a haircut.

Bahorel strides into the upper floor of the café wearing a beanie, and the whole room goes silent. He stops in the doorway and waits for the inevitable barrage of comments as seven pairs of eyes swivel to face him.

There’s a classic spaghetti western standoff for a good long while, Bahorel almost able to see the tumbleweed rolling by, before he grumbles, crosses his arms, and breaks the silence.

“Joly, first question,” Bahorel says.

“It’s August,” Joly blurts.

“It sure is. Boss, next?”

“You look exactly like a lumberjack. Like a really cheesy lumberjack in a deodorant ad,” Bossuet says.

Bahorel looks down at his shirt and curses at the Bahorel from this morning for going with red plaid on his trip to the salon. He makes a mental note to never try and pass as straight again.

Combeferre raises his hand.

“Yes, Ferre.”

“Why, exactly, are you wearing a beanie in August?”

“Bad haircut. Enjolras?”

Enjolras takes a beat. “Can we see it?”

“Hard no.”

Of course, that’s when the hat is ripped from his head from behind, and Bahorel whirls around to see Grantaire holding it, shit-eating grin on the bastard’s face. His hands fly up to cover his shaved sides, but his fingers brush the crusty gel the stylist had put on the longer part of the hair and he pulls them away again, perturbed.

The room falls silent once more.

“I know it sucks,” Bahorel says, “And I know that now I look like some military jerk-off, but this garbage will take months to grow out again so if any of y’all talk shit right now we’re gonna have words later.”

He swipes the hat back from Grantaire and finally moves out of the doorway. The room remains silent as he scrapes back a chair and slumps melodramatically into it.

“Uh…Bahorel,” Feuilly starts, tentatively. “It doesn’t look bad. Like it really, really doesn’t look bad.”

“It’s a _crew cut_ , Feuilly,” Bahorel moans. “What was I thinking?”

Courfeyrac speaks up. “Yeah, okay, no one else is gonna say it outright so I will. Bahorel, buddy, my dude, you look fucking hot.”

Bahorel arches an eyebrow and looks around the room. There’s a couple quiet “yeah”s, and Grantaire gives him two big thumbs up. He looks to Enjolras, who purses his lips and gives him a single, terse nod.

“Huh,” says Bahorel, stupidly.

He turns to the only person whose fashion opinion he trusts. Jehan grins and flashes him the “O.K.” sign, and Bahorel feels better about himself instantly.


	8. Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan. Modern era. He's a fly on the wall.

People pretend not to take notice of Jean Prouvaire on the street, with his overalls and geometric 90s sweaters and faded waistcoats, his mismatched shoes, the eight different shades of dye in his hair. He always keeps to himself in public, and takes some joy in watching passer-bys steal unsubtle glances. Over and over again eyes flash towards him just as they would towards a flamingo or any other brightly-coloured organism, and then quickly flash away, lest they be caught staring.

It’s counterintuitive how little attention people pay to Prouvaire because of this–something about not wanting to be caught judging an outlier, he supposes–and he both finds this fact fascinating, and is quite willing to exploit it.

He sits in Parc Monceau with his spiral notebook and a pen, scribbling furiously, looking up from his work only for cool birds and the children who approach him to ask if he’s a fairy. What does he write, you may ask? Speech. Regular, human speech; the snippets of dialogue he hears all around, entire conversations that occur on adjacent benches, and if he’s lucky, one side of a phone call, the other half to which he is not privy. He enjoys piecing together a persona for whoever is on the end of the line.

Prouvaire likes to imagine it’s a spell he casts, one which allows him to hide in plain sight. The incantation is silence, the pen is his wand, his scribbles the somatic action, the overalls his wizard’s garb. He writes his first line and feels the enchantment fall upon him like a heavy cloak, morphing him into a fly on the wall. People speak freely as if he isn’t there, ignoring him on purpose or assuming he is far too engrossed in his writing to notice.

The spell lasts until his hand cramps, or night falls, or a butterfly lands on him and he giggles, alerting other people to his presence (a far more common occurrence than it should be). Prouvaire simply accepts its end, stands, and heads on home with a notebook full of humanity at its most human.


	9. Strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joly. Modern era. He used to be ashamed of needing help, but not anymore.

There are not many wide-open spaces in Paris, where the wind whips around as rough and free as it does out here in the countryside, and Joly relishes the feeling of it battering at his back and turning his jacket into a billowing balloon, strong enough that he feels like if he jumps he’ll be carried away like a dandelion on the wind.

Joly has needed support every moment of his life–whether it was from his parents, a large stack of pillows, medication, or his cane–and he used to think that made him weak. It used to be his greatest source of stress, being unable to function in the world without something (or many things) there to help him through. The glasses he got when he was only nine. The doctors he questioned about illnesses, real and imagined, all throughout his teens. The months upon months of benzos, required just to get a good night’s sleep. 

He can’t even identify the turning point for when his attitude changed–he supposes it was sometime after he started hanging out with Combeferre, but even that is unclear. It doesn’t seem to matter now, anyway; Joly is just glad that that period of his life is over. 

Right now, he leans back cautiously to see if the gusts will support his weight. They push up against him, and the strength of it nearly blows him forward. He spreads his arms, tips his head back, and gives in to the wind like a trust fall. It catches him like the best of friends.

Joly laughs, joyful and delirious, and the sound carries for miles.


	10. Crisp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cosette. Modern era. A recipe.

**_A recipe for apple crisp_ ** _  
Made by Cosette Fauchelevent_

-Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

-Gently remove cats from countertop.

-Slice 10 cups of apples and place them in a baking pan.

-Mix together 1 cup of white sugar–no Marius, not a cup for drinking, please put that down–1 tbsp flour, and 2 tsp of cinnamon. Sprinkle mixture over apples. Cover apples in ½ cup of water.

-Take a moment to clean cinnamon paw prints that cats have tracked all over the kitchen.

-Be distracted by toe beans.

-Be distracted by the book you left on the table yesterday.

-Be jumpscared by oven beeping. It is preheated.

-Combine: 1 cup quick-cooking oats (oh gosh oh no this is the kind with secret candy dinosaurs), 1 cup flour, 1 cup brown sugar (more if you have a sweet tooth and you are not ashamed!), ¼ tsp baking powder, ¼ tsp baking soda, and ½ cup of melted butter. Crumble mixture over tray of apples.

-Remove cats from countertop. Give them a stern talking-to this time.

-Put in oven and set timer for 45 minutes.

-Cuddle on couch with Marius and cats. Enjoy book, warm socks, and the wafting scent of baking apples. Think about the orchard you went to last week to pick them, and the basket you came home with that was so heavy you needed papa to carry it. Laugh. Be reminded why autumn is your favourite season.

-Be jumpscared by oven beeping again.

-Remind Marius to put on oven mitts–oh, too late.

-Retrieve pan from oven with oven mitts.

-You are done!


	11. Desperate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire and Enjolras. Modern era. Grantaire's trying to be a decent person, but he's being tested right now.

Grantaire knows, as soon as the clock strikes noon, that he picked the wrong week to start trying to be an okay person. He’d been doing great so far, only slipping up when he had to jump the gate at the metro yesterday (he forgot his card, okay?) and when he tossed a banana peel on the ground in front of Bossuet the day before (in his defense, it was very funny). 

Now, however, it’s noon, he’s in a residential district at least a half-hour walk from the nearest public toilet, and all the reasons he’s come up with to not piss on the sidewalk right here and now sound super weak bouncing around in his skull. Grantaire should have been prepared for this after the Sunday brunch- _cum_ -daydrink he has lovingly dubbed ‘elevenses’, which he does at least once a month, so it’s not like he couldn’t figure out that shortly after elevenses comes a bathroom break. 

But, well. Grantaire’s never been the best at foresight.

He steels his resolve. He’s doing pretty good so far with the decent-human act and he refuses to allow an angry bladder to mess that up. He starts speedwalking. Not to the toilet, but to the nearest friend’s house. It’s only 15 minutes away, 10 if he ignores traffic laws; his brain calculating and recalculating the fastest route like a frantic piss-powered GPS. He can only hope that Enjolras is home, and if he isn’t, well–it’s probably a sign from the gods that he should stop trying.

He arrives at his front door about to explode and raps hard with one hand, pressing the buzzer with the other. After a solid minute without reply, he gives up, prepares to find a nice alley somewhere, and then he sees it.

Enjolras’ window is wide open. His conveniently-first-floor, wide-enough-for-a-person window.

Grantaire doesn’t even take a second to question it before he swings his legs over the ledge and into what appears to be the kitchen. He’s been here a couple times before, not that he remembers the layout–why would he pay attention to that, when Enjolras was in the room?–so it takes a moment of searching before he finds the bathroom door. He’s reaching for the handle when it swings open right in front of his face, revealing Enjolras, in a towel, hair dripping wet, and Grantaire’s brain short-circuits.

“Uh,” say Grantaire and Enjolras, at the same time.

“I was going to get the front door,” says Enjolras.

Grantaire remembers what brought him here in the first place. “Okay, I’ll explain in five minutes but I am desperate and if you don’t step out of that bathroom right now I will literally lay down and die here.”

Enjolras starts to protest, but Grantaire pushes him lightly out of the way and pulls the door shut behind him. He takes a deep breath, and curses every single decision he’s made in the past hour that brought him to this place.

Grantaire gives up on being a good person right then and there.


	12. Feuilly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feuilly. Modern era. He has a job interview tomorrow.

Professionalism isn’t exactly Feuilly’s strong suit, which is why he tends to take jobs that only ask for punctuality and nothing more formal than sweatpants. But by this point in his life he’s mastered the illusion of professionalism; all you need is one wrinkle-free shirt and a decent handshake to get past the interview and you’re home free. Sweatpants all the way down, after that.

He has one at noon tomorrow–an interview that is, for some janitorial position–but the ritual starts tonight. Steam the one shirt, print the resume, think about what his greatest weakness might be and if it has anything to do with mops. He goes to the mirror to shave, then stops, razor held to his face. What does a classic janitor look like? Should he lose all originality and go for That, or angle for being a janitor With Personality? Do janitors have five o’clock shadows or a clean face?

Feuilly sets the razor down and goes to bed. He needs his full nine hours, and this is a big, morning-of-interview decision. It cannot be rushed. Not in this economy. 

When he wakes up, he’s well-rested. The shirt hangs neatly on the back of a chair, and his resume is tucked into a folder in his bag. The razor sits on the countertop by the mirror. He inspects his reflection, running a hand along the short bristles of his beard. It suits the job. Just a little trim on the sides, he thinks, and the professional illusion will be all there. 

Twelve rolls around, and the employer asks him to come in. He greets her with a smile and a firm grasp of the hand, tasteful five o’clock shadow on display. She smiles back and asks him to sit, and Feuilly has an inkling that he’s going to get this.

He sees sweatpants on the horizon already.


	13. Repair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Éponine and Cosette. Modern era. They meet again, after years of growing up apart.

Éponine checks the time on her phone (13:01). She wraps her hands around the paper cup and digs her fingernails into it, deep enough that it leaves marks over her name. She watches the steam rise from her coffee and fog up a spot on the front window, obscuring her view of the busy street outside the café. Éponine checks the time on her phone (13:02). She tenses when she catches a glimpse of long brown hair from the corner of her eye, passing by outside the window, but whoever it was continues on past the little shop and Éponine relaxes again.

She takes a sip of the coffee and wrinkles her nose. It’s black, not exactly what she goes for but her hands were shaking too much to put the milk in without making a mess. She takes another sip anyway, and gets a bit of comfort from the acrid taste. Éponine checks the time on her phone (13:03). She doesn’t usually give this much of a shit about other people being on time, but she’s bouncing her leg violently enough to rattle the table, and the later Cosette gets, the more nervous she becomes.

Éponine checks the time on her phone, and before she can read it a pair of soft blue boots stops near her table, facing her, and she looks up.

“Hey,” Cosette says, looking nothing like she had when they were kids, and who she only recognizes now because of her Instagram posts.

Éponine stands up on instinct. “Hi,” she says. “Uh. Thanks for coming.”

“Yeah! Of course, it’s…been a while, huh?”

Éponine reaches out a hand, gesturing for her to sit, and sees Cosette flinch back ever so slightly before she recovers, hides it with a smile, and pulls out her chair. Éponine swallows and ignores the way her throat clenches. She takes her seat.

“Yeah,” says Éponine. “Over a decade.”

They stare at each other a long moment, saying nothing, before Éponine chickens out and glances back at her coffee. She can’t do this while Cosette looks at her like that, with eyes that should be hollowed and tired from life’s beatings but somehow aren’t. It’s hard to try and repair things with someone who looks like nothing was broken in the first place.

“So…what have you been up to?” Cosette asks.

Éponine sighs. “Listen. Before I say anything else, I just wanna get this out first, because if I don’t say it now I never will and I…really want to be friends. I treated you like garbage when we were kids, and I know it was so long ago it might not even matter to you anymore, but you didn’t deserve it. There’s no way I can make it up to you in a way that matters except to tell you, now, that I’m really sorry.” She looks up from her coffee. “I mean it. If I had a wish I’d use it to go back and just be _nice_ to you.”

Cosette bites her bottom lip and turns to look out the window through the fog still rising from Éponine’s coffee, expression unreadable. Éponine watches her, squeezing the cup in silence. Some of the coffee spills out and over her hand. She barely notices.

“How about buying me coffee?” Cosette says.

“Huh?”

Cosette turns to her and smiles again. “Buy me coffee, and we can call it even. Then we’ll start over.”

Éponine blinks. “Okay.” She tentatively smiles back. “Okay, I can do that.”


	14. Disguise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marius, Cosette, and Courfeyrac. Modern era. Swapping costumes for one reason: shenanigans.

Marius dutifully tightens the corset, pulling the lacing at each grommet one by one. There’s fourteen on each side and his fingers are getting sore. This is a lot of effort for an event that can’t possibly be longer than three hours, he thinks, but neither Courfeyrac nor Cosette ever do anything by half-measures.

“That’s good,” Cosette says.

Marius knots the lacing into a neat bow and starts to massage his tired hands. “That fits you well,” he says. “Considering it belongs to Cosette.”

Courfeyrac inspects himself in the mirror. “Actually? Yeah. It looks good. Surprisingly comfortable.” He bends over and tries to touch his toes. 

Cosette tsks and crosses her arms. “Unfair that it looks better on you.”

“Not true,” say Marius and Courfeyrac at the same time.

Courfeyrac takes her by the waist and turns her towards the mirror. “Besides, look at yourself, Cosette. Marius is shook.”

Cosette is in some very loose pirate’s clothes and a red wig. She looks beautiful as always, of course, but the outfit was also Courfeyrac’s costume from the year before, so with Courfeyrac right next to her wearing her corset and an under-skirt of some kind, the whole thing is just very confusing. Marius rubs his temples.

Cosette picks up the lace masks from beside her, hands the pink one to Courfeyrac, and holds the black one up to her own face.

She turns to Marius. “What do you think? Could we fool them?” she asks.

He looks between the two of them. Even with their faces covered, Courfeyrac has an extra couple inches on her in his heels, and Cosette’s shirt scoops low enough to reveal an obvious lack of chest hair. He tries not to look too hard. “Um. You could fool Bahorel, maybe.”

Courfeyrac slumps as much as he can in the corset. “I guess it’s not a perfect disguise.”

“You need to put the rest of your costume on first!” Cosette says. “And I’ll make Marius hold your hand all night. Don’t worry, it’ll be perfect.”

“What?” says Marius.

Courfeyrac lowers his mask and earnestly sets a hand on her shoulder. “You would let me do that?”

“Do I get a say in this?”

Cosette ignores him. “To prank Enjolras? Anything.” She puts her hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder. They share a nod that is far too serious for what they’re wearing. “Let’s do this.”

Courfeyrac picks up a comically large hoop skirt. “Marius, help me into this, and get ready to pretend to be my BF for the night. We’ve got a goof to do.”

“I–” He’s about to object, but Cosette shoots him a pleading look, and Marius caves with a sigh. “Yeah. Yeah, makes total sense.” He takes the hoop skirt from Courfeyrac, and starts to help him put it on. 

Cosette beams at him, and that might just be enough to get him through the evening.


	15. Wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras. Modern era. His face goes viral in the most unfortunate way.

Of all the possible ways Enjolras could have had his fifteen minutes of fame, this has to be the worst one. In an ideal world, if he has to be known on the internet for something, it would be for an inspiring speech or a well-written article or a list of resources at the very least, just something, anything, other than this. Enjolras thumbs through the group chat’s morning messages while walking, horrified.

Courfeyrac [9:17]: god enj when did you even take this photo??  
Combeferre [9:17]: I took it. The top half, at least. The outfit appears to be photoshopped.  
Bahorel [9:17]: l m a o  
Bahorel [9:17]: and WHAT an outfit it is  
Bahorel [9:17]: this is ridiculous i cant even be mad that its wish  
Joly [9:18]: OMG YOU’RE ONLY 2€ ON WISH  
Prouvaire [9:18]: For the price of a coffee, you may have one (1) Enjolras.  
Courfeyrac [9:18]: i’d like one in each colour pls  
Grantaire [9:19]: Bought it. receipt if you don’t believe me  
Grantaire [9:19]: [Grantaire sent a photo.]  
Joly [9:20]: Absolute madman  
Grantaire [9:20]: I want 2 know what they send me

Someone Enjolras passes on the street gives him a strange look and he instantly feels self-conscious. He pulls his scarf up to cover his mouth. He scrolls up to check the Twitter link again. His face in the ad is in focus, unfortunately so, and the tweet reads “fuck tinder, imma order me this hot Wish guy”. He helplessly watches the retweet counter jump to 10k.

Enjolras [9:25]: I’m going to ask them to take it down.  
Combeferre [9:26]: Already done  
Prouvaire [9:26]: Alas the nature of twitter is that when you cut off a head, two more grow back in its place  
Prouvaire [9:26]: So like a bunch of other accounts are just gonna copy it and pretend it’s theirs

Enjolras pockets his phone and pushes open the door of the bakery. It’s unpleasantly warm in here with his scarf on, but he leaves it covering his nose. He knows logically that there’s a very low chance any given stranger would recognize him here from a single tweet, but very low is not none, and he has no idea how he might have that conversation. He quickly grabs the pastries he came here for, avoids the cashier’s gaze, and leaves the shop.

He checks his phone again, and the conversation as usual has moved on without him.

Courfeyrac [9:37]: if you think about it tho do you know how easy it would be to get people on board w ABC if we say our leader is hot wish guy  
Courfeyrac [9:38]: like we wouldn’t reference it v much. but if we mention it once we could really do numbers  
Joly [9:38]: Using the backs of our enemies (Wish) as a springboard? I’m in

Enjolras nearly walks into someone. He stops and finds a bench.

Enjolras [9:39]: I really don’t think that would work.  
Combeferre [9:40]: I hate this, but I think it might.  
Enjolras [9:41]: …Of all people, Combeferre  
Combeferre [9:41]: I’m just being honest.

He sighs heavily and slumps back on the bench. This feels kind of underhanded, but if it garners them support, who is he to argue with it?

“Excuse me,” says a voice beside him, and Enjolras stiffens. “Are you the one in that Wish ad?”

Enjolras [9:53]: Fine.


	16. Intrepid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gavroche. He enjoys pissing off rich people just by existing.

The 16e arrondissement in Paris is where the rich folk hang out, and pissing them off is one of Gavroche’s simple joys in life. It really doesn’t take much either, just take a seat on the sidewalk outside one of their fancy restaurants, watch them eat, and see them get all uncomfortable when they notice him. 

A couple keeps looking at him and whispering to each other. Gavroche predicts the next bit: they’re gonna flag the waiter guy down, point at him, and someone will come out to shoo him away. A couple minutes later, it happens just as he suspected. He flips off the couple and sprints off with the manager or whatever cussing him out all the way down the street.

Here, he’s like a dribble of coffee on an otherwise clean white shirt. Folks click their tongues at him or pretend like he’s not there, but honestly, he gives the place more character than it has on its own. You could go to any big city in the world and find a posh neighbourhood that looks just like the 16e (he assumes, he’ll never leave this one), but only Paris has Gavroche. Cops and jewelry shop security people can give their excuses to get him out of sight of tourists and rich residents, but he always sticks around. He’s done no wrong but to exist, after all.

There’s one long street that goes south-west from the Arc de Triomphe all the way to a huge park, and he feels intrepid enough, so he might try and walk the whole route. He makes another prediction: today, he will make it all the way to the post office before someone tells him to get lost or asks him where his parents are.

He gets to the arch, and as is the custom, tourists are giving him strange looks or keeping their noses high so they don’t see him. He makes an about turn to the south-west, looks down the street, and begins to walk. It’s 20 minutes to the post office. Plenty of time for someone to find a reason to turn him away from the neighbourhood, but that’s fine. No matter what, he’ll be back shortly.


	17. Cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre. Modern era. Cats start following him home one day.

The first one follows him home after work one January night, and Combeferre might have completely missed it if he hadn’t stopped to take a photo of some winter fungi. He stares at the little black cat, who would be invisible but for the lamplight and the trail of pawprints left in the snow that accompany his own as far back as he can see. 

“Hello,” he says.

“Meow,” the cat replies, as cats do.

Combeferre crouches down. The cat pads over and headbutts his hand.

“Where’d you come from then?” he asks it. He looks down the street, but at this hour the neighbourhood is empty and quiet save for the wind. 

The cat’s fur is slightly matted, it’s thin, and there’s no collar. Combeferre sighs. A stray. He stands. The cat watches him, pupils narrowing. He starts to walk home again, checking behind him every few metres to make sure he’s still being followed.

He opens the door to his apartment and the cat instantly runs inside, trailing wet footprints over the linoleum. It’s past midnight, he’s tired, and it’s far too late for any shelters to be open, so he just sets a plate of cold leftover chicken in the living room and passes out on the couch.

He wakes up the next morning to an empty plate and a scratching at the front door. He rubs a groggy hand over his face and stands up, wondering how in the world the cat could have gotten out. He opens the door, and in front of him sits a completely different black cat. 

“Hello,” he says.

“Meow,” the cat replies.

The cat brushes past Combeferre’s leg on its way into his apartment. He just watches it go, bewildered. He knows nothing of cat behaviour but this really doesn’t seem like a common occurrence.

By the time he’s showered and eaten and gotten ready for the day, he only has the time to either make the phone call to the shelter or go to the shop for some cat food. He watches the two cats stare at each other in silence across his living room, sees in the light how thin they are, and elects to go for the food.

On his way home from work that evening, he locks eyes with two cats wrestling in an alleyway, and can’t bring himself to be surprised when they start to follow him home.

Combeferre spends the next week accumulating a frankly alarming number of cats–apart from those four in the first two days, another five show up at his doorstep the following morning, and then another eight at various points in the week. Some follow him home, some show up at the door, one tries to crawl in through the mail slot, and another seems to fall from the sky, making Combeferre truly believe for a nanosecond that ‘raining cats and dogs’ is no longer a metaphor. His apartment has gotten loud and chaotic. He’s taken to naming his unexpected party to keep track of them, running through all the dwarves in The Hobbit before moving on to members of the fellowship in Lord of the Rings. At the end of the week he stares dumbfoundedly at his living room, where almost all of his dishes are laid out on the ground with food and water, the cats crowded around them.

Combeferre isn’t a believer in witchcraft–other than for its spiritual benefits in those who practice it, of course–but all the logical explanations are all eluding him. He checks his address to see if it used to be an animal shelter, or if it had once been rented by a cat enthusiast. He looks inside his coat for catnip that might have somehow fallen into it. In desperation, he searches his apartment for some kind of large, concealed fish. All to no avail. He texts the other amis, and while they all want to come over and visit, none have any insight into the situation. Combeferre gives up and accepts that some mysteries are simply never meant to be solved.

When he calls the shelter, they tell him, of course, that they don’t have the space for _seventeen cats_. He sighs and slouches onto the couch, immediately stressed.

“Meow,” says a voice at his feet.

He looks down. Dwalin, the very first cat, sits and stares at him curiously. Even after only a week, her fur looks healthier, and her ribs aren’t quite so visible. She hops up onto his lap.

“What am I going to do with you all?” he asks, scratching her behind the ear. 

She purrs, sets her front paws on his chest, and starts to lick his chin. Combeferre laughs and the stress dissipates for a moment. Dwalin settles up against him and starts to fall asleep.

Just a little bit longer, he supposes, falling asleep as well, they can all stay.


	18. Adventure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean Valjean and Cosette. Modern era. They go on vacation together.

When Cosette turns 18, Valjean musters up every ounce of courage he can find, and takes the two of them on a trip overseas. 

He’s watched her dream of travel for a long time, scrolling through her phone, grinning at photos of her friends hiking through mountains or posing next to gargantuan trees. She showed him the ones of grand cathedrals and humble but picturesque towns, and suggested not-so-subtly to him that it would be very nice to see them in person, wouldn’t it? Valjean always gave her a weak smile and even weaker excuse at that, but these days his own fear is no longer a good enough reason to stand between Cosette and her wanderlust.

It’s not as if Cosette has never left France–she’s been elsewhere in Europe on school trips–but whenever she did, Valjean was not with her, and he spent the entire time she was away pacing and fretting about all the horrible things that might happen. If Cosette were to go overseas alone, the separation anxiety might end him for good. Ergo, the only solution: Valjean learns to deal with it, and they go together.

Everything about Montréal is alien to him from the moment they land at the airport. The streets, the locals’ dialect, the sheer size of their hotel and the great glass buildings that surround it. Valjean looks over his shoulder constantly, and he worries that every stranger who looks at them for a bit too long knows everything about him. 

Cosette, however, navigates this strange new world with an ease that would suggest she came here once a week, had Valjean not known the truth. The only thing that might hint at her being from far away is the zeal with which she crosses the city. They climb Mont Royal, Cosette beaming from ear to ear and taking her ‘panoramas’ with her phone. She presses her face against the glass at the biodome to watch the penguins swim, eyes shining the way they had when she was a child and there were ballerinas on TV. Even simply riding the metro to her is a curiosity; an opportunity to learn the spread of the city and where the locals depart the train compared to the tourists.

Where Valjean is nervous and a bit lost, Cosette is fearless. Within a day of their arrival, he simply allows her to take the lead, and has a much better time here for it. Her joy is contagious as always.

Most surprisingly, he learns the true appeal of a photograph on this trip. All of the ones he takes are a bit shaky and out of focus, having never used this function on his phone before, and a few are somehow of his own face. But he keeps taking them, because each time he walks with Cosette down an unfamiliar street, she grows a look of wonder on her face, and all Valjean wishes is that he could remember this very moment. So he takes his pictures. A time and place frozen so that later on when the memories start to dissipate, he will not forget the adventure.

His very favourite, though, is of Cosette on the airplane home. The sun sets outside the window over a sea of cloud, and she looks tired, but content. No more than that. He loves it because right before he took it, Valjean had asked how she was feeling, and she had answered:

“I’m just happy, papa. I’m really, really happy.”


	19. Fold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre, Grantaire, Joly, and Bossuet. Canon era. A very confusing game of cards.

Combeferre prides himself a bit on his card game ability, so the scene before him is one he finds quite disturbing. He has been standing in the entrance to Joly and Bossuet’s rooms for the past twenty minutes, unbeknownst to this game’s players, and cannot make heads or tails of the rules. He watches yet another round, eyebrows furrowed.

Grantaire glances at his hand. “Hit me.”

Joly passes him another card.

“Stand.”

Bossuet pushes his pile of loose change to the centre of the floor between them. “I raise your stand.” He flips over a card from the deck.

“The trump is spades,” Joly announces.

Bossuet slumps. “I fold.” 

Grantaire clicks his tongue and tosses his two cards on the ground. “Just 19. No spades.”

“Remove your shirt, Bossuet.”

Bossuet takes off his shirt and tosses it onto the growing pile of loose garments–braces, waistcoats, hats–which appear to be largely his. Bousset shivers in the cold.

Combeferre gives up. “What in the world are you three playing?”

They turn to the door and notice him at last. 

“Quite simple,” Joly says. “I am playing euchre, L’Aigle here plays poker, and Grantaire, blackjack. Come, play a round with us.” 

He waits for some further explanation, but none comes. Grantaire collects the cards and begins to shuffle them. Stupefied, he takes a seat on the floor with them.

“What are the rules? And…what of the undressing?”

Bossuet laughs at him. “There is no need for rules. The loser is clear enough each round.” 

“You will play hearts,” Grantaire says, dealing him a seemingly arbitrary number of cards. “Pass to your left. He with the best hand will win.”

Combeferre frowns, but picks up his cards nonetheless. He passes three to Joly, two aces and a queen, as if they were playing a simple game of hearts.

“Stand,” says Grantaire. 

“Call,” says Bossuet.

“Erm,” says Combeferre. He places the two of clubs on the table.

“Trump is diamonds,” says Joly.

The other two reveal their hands, and Combeferre takes that as his cue to do the same. 

Without speaking, they all look at his hand, and then at him. He is reminded of bees; of the knowledge they all seem to share without the need for verbal communications. A trio with the mind of a hive. He supposes that comparison would have him be the beekeeper, able to wrangle and somewhat make sense of the creatures, but not enough to ever know their inner workings.

“Remove your waistcoat, Combeferre.”

He has the freedom to refuse, but he does not. Perhaps more time spent with these three might lead him to a better understanding of them. Or bees, at the very least.

“Who has the next deal?” he asks.


	20. Boot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bahorel and Jehan. Three different eras. They keep meeting, across time, and across the world.

_1715\. Off the coast of Nassau._

Bahorel swears as he inspects his clothing. The man he’d crossed swords with had been messy with his blade, all taunt and no slash, and as a result his clothes were cut and ruined. He inspects the body. The man appears to be wearing a different boot on each foot, completely useless to him. 

He makes a move to turn and walk away, but bumps his shoulder into someone. A scrawny and soft-spoken man that Bahorel had wagered would not survive his first skirmish. Prouvaire looks a little bloodied, but unrattled. Bahorel swears again as he realizes he now owes R twenty silver pieces. 

Prouvaire acknowledges him with a nod. He removes his boots, crouches, removes the dead man’s boots, and slides the mismatched pair onto his own feet. He stands and wordlessly shoves his old pair into Bahorel’s chest, before heading below deck.

Bahorel looks dumbly in the direction he went. Strange one, he was. He looks at the new pair of boots. They’re actually quite nice. 

_1931\. Des Moines._

He stomps away from the mine, pulls out his tobacco pouch, and tosses the helmet to the ground. He wishes he had a light and a cigarette. He was never suited for this shit, but being without it would leave him in dire straits along with the rest of this godforsaken country. Bahorel slumps back against the nearest building on site and chews until he can think again.

A younger man crosses his path, dust-covered overalls way too loose, looking sullenly at the ground. Prouvaire, a guy he would have been able to talk to without resorting to broken English, if he ever spoke. 

“Got the boot too, huh?” he says.

Prouvaire looks startled that someone’s talking to him, then just stops and kicks at the dirt. “Yeah,” he says.

“Gonna stick around in this city?”

“Don’t have much choice.”

“Hm.” Bahorel spits out his wad. “Got someone to look after, then.”

Prouvaire shakes his head. “I came alone. Nowhere else gonna hire a Frenchman but here.”

“Sure.”

They stay silent for a minute, Prouvaire kicking the dirt and Bahorel trying and failing to ascertain just how old he is. Could be anywhere between teens and thirties, a face like that. Seems strangely familiar, in any case.

“I got an extra room, kid. Might not help us with a job, but could do with the company.”

“I’m twenty,” Prouvaire says, jutting out his chin. “Not a kid.”

“Offer stands.”

Prouvaire takes a moment before replying. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be real nice.”

_2005\. Paris._

Bahorel hates permits. The whole concept of permits. He gets on some level why they exist, but the idea of filling out pages of paperwork just to go somewhere or sell some shit doesn’t sit right. That’s why right now he sits in his car boot by some park, next to all his old clothes, hawking his wares to every passing stranger. He doesn’t need the money, but it sure feels good to stick it to them. Permits, that is.

Someone wanders out of the park in the most garish green jacket, and Bahorel clocks him instantly.

“My tangerine friend, have I got the deal for you,” he says, and waves his hand at the collection of boldly-coloured coats and dangerously short shorts. “All of these, 2€ each.” 

His eyes light up, and he makes a beeline for Bahorel’s car. Wow. That was easy.

Within a minute this dude is holding up a pair of overalls in one hand and some galoshes in the other, and Bahorel is hit with déjà vu. He continues digging through the pile with pure glee and the feeling disappears.

“Take your time, I’ll be here ‘til I’m kicked out,” Bahorel says. And pauses. “What’s your name?”

“Jehan Prouvaire.”

He mouths it to himself, but it’s unfamiliar. “Have we met?” 

“Maybe,” Prouvaire replies, without even looking at him. He hangs more clothes over his arm. “I wander around a lot.”

“Think I’d remember a jacket like that.” He points at the green monstrosity. “I’m Bahorel.”

Prouvaire meets his eyes for the first time and smiles. “Oh yeah, we have. Can’t remember where, though.” 

Bahorel shrugs. “Well, I won’t forget now.” He gestures at the pile of clothes in his arms. “Got everything you want?”

Prouvaire looks at his haul. “If I could carry it all, I’d buy you out right here.” 

“I’ll tell you what, Jehan Prouvaire. Same time next week, new park, I’ll be back. There’s loads more where that came from.”

“And the week after that?”

Bahorel laughs. “Different park again. But I’ll be around.”

Prouvaire struggles to get to his own pocket, and hands him a crisp twenty. “Good.”

“See you then, I guess?”

“Yeah. See you next time.”


	21. Bloom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean Prouvaire. Modern era. He names his plants after his friends.

~The plant diary (and friendly divination) of Jean Prouvaire~  
 _October 21st_

Name: Enjolras  
Species: Chinese Hibiscus  
Status: Flourishing. Windowsill growing dusty.  
Plant Action: Spray with water.  
Herbomancy: Focused on something. Check in, send reminder about sleep.

Name: Combeferre  
Species: Aloe Vera  
Status: Delightfully springy. Fun to poke.  
Plant Action: Move further into sunlight.  
Herbomancy: Probably tired. Induce laughter at least one (1) time today.

Name: Feuilly  
Species: Spider Plant  
Status: Brand-new plantlet growth!  
Plant Action: Prepare new pot for transfer.  
Herbomancy: Very busy indeed. Send over some take-out.

Name: Courfeyrac  
Species: Moth Orchid  
Status: Flowers vibrant. Seems taller than usual.  
Plant Action: Have a staring contest.  
Herbomancy: Daydreaming. Message only in the evening.

Name: Bahorel  
Species: Silver Ball Cactus  
Status: Flower withered. Still looks like gay pineapple.  
Plant Action: Fertilize.  
Herbomancy: Unaware of season change. Send reminder to wear coat.

Name: Bossuet  
Species: Lucky Bamboo  
Status: Pot overturned. How?  
Plant Action: Set upright and reinforce.  
Herbomancy: Average day. Find a good meme to message.

Name: Joly  
Species: Dudleya Succulent  
Status: Spritely. Extra-red tips.  
Plant Action: Leave to own devices.  
Herbomancy: Enjoying autumn. Ask to meet, take long walk in park.

Name: Grantaire  
Species: Violet Queen Guzmania  
Status: Bloom spotted!!!!!  
Plant Action: Maintain water routine.  
Herbomancy: Something good has happened. Prod desperately for details.


	22. Leaf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feuilly, Combeferre, and Marius. Canon era. Marius leaves a strange book for Jean Prouvaire.

Marius, carrying a tome under his arm, has been waffling at the door of the café for several minutes, glancing often at Combeferre. Feuilly is well-acquainted with Combeferre enough to know he has noticed him, and is simply too polite to confront him about whatever he might be here for.

On more than one occasion Feuilly watches Marius begin to walk towards their table, grow nervous, and perform a poorly-executed feint, as if he was headed somewhere else. The fourth time he does this, Combeferre stands and migrates to a table further away. At Combeferre’s departure, Marius hastily approaches and deposits the book in front of Feuilly.

“This is for Prouvaire, on the next occasion you see him. I no longer wish to have it,” he says, and departs before Feuilly can even greet him.

He glances at the book on the table. It has no title on the cover, so he turns to a random page and begins to leaf through it.

“What did Pontmercy want?” asks Combeferre, returning to his original seat. 

Feuilly gestures at the book, which now on examination appears to be written in German. “He wants this to be delivered to Prouvaire. Why he could not do that while you were here, I do not know.”

“I may have an inkling,” Combeferre sighs.

He doesn’t elaborate any further, so Feuilly goes back to the tome. On page 22 reads a heading “ _Die Geister des Wassers_ ” and atop it, the French translation scrawled in pen: _The Spirits of the Water_. The several pages later is _The Spirits of Earth_. The pages in between are filled with dense print and its translation written into the margins.

“It’s a grimoire,” Combeferre says in wonder, leaning over and adjusting his glasses to better read it. “Why on earth would Pontmercy own such a thing?” 

“I’m far more curious about how he appears to have used it to learn the German language.”

Combeferre turns over several more pages and stops on one that depicts a celestial map of some sort. He runs a finger over the printed stars. “It must have developed in him quite a strange vocabulary.”

Feuilly is distracted by a loose sheet poking out the bottom, wedged between the pages. He gently pulls it out. It’s a short written note, in the same handwriting as the translations in the margins of the grimoire. It reads: _M. Prouvaire– this book seems alike to your interests. May you find it much less frightening than I have. Marius Pontmercy._

He shows the note to Combeferre, who reads it quickly and chuckles to himself. “Seems he was a victim of it.”

“Of superstition?” Feuilly asks.

“Superstition? I would not be so dismissive, my friend,” Combeferre says, eyes twinkling over his glasses. “There is the greater chance that this is all superstition and folk-tales, but without performing tests there is no way to know for certain.”

“Even if I do not believe in the”–Feuilly reads one of the margin notes–“conjuring of fire through spells, I am not so bold as to attempt it.”

“Neither am I.”

“So it shall remain a mystery to us, then?”

“Like all the best things to think about, Feuilly,” Combeferre says, “it shall remain a mystery.”


	23. Threadbare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire. Modern era. In the midst of a depressive episode, he has one good day.

For the first time in weeks, the sun is still up when Grantaire wakes.

He doesn’t process this at first. He cracks his eyes open to see the light glinting off the collection of dusty water glasses on his nightstand, thinks he’s still dreaming, and closes them again. But the light persists through his eyelids, so he rolls over and checks the time. 3 pm. The earliest he’s woken up all winter.

Grantaire lies awake and still in his bed, staring at his disaster of a room. It’s his own morning ritual, made alien by the sun streaming through the curtains, casting a light on all the garbage strewn about and the dishes that haven’t seen the sink for a while. He grabs the least offensive-looking glass of water and takes a drink. It might just be the sun, but for once his head is free of the dense fog that clouds his every action.

This is the start of a good day. It feels like it’s been years since the last.

He brings the dishes to the kitchen, fills the sink with water, and leaves them to soak. He brews himself a cup of coffee. He fetches the mail. He stands by the window and feels the sun, distant as it is in late December. He’ll only get to see it for a few hours before it sets, but that’s a few hours more than he usually gets.

Grantaire grabs the phone from his bedroom, and calls Joly.

“Grantaire?” Joly says. 

“Hey.”

“You’re up early. What’s going on?”

“If you guys come over today, I’ll make us dinner.”

“Damn, really? Hang on.” There’s some muffled voices on the other line, before Joly picks up again. “Hell yeah, we’ll head there in an hour.”

“Cool. See you.”

Joly is silent, but Grantaire can hear him breathing. After a moment, he asks: “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, and then realizes he isn’t lying. “I’m good.”

“Right. See you soon.” 

There’s a decent amount of food in his fridge and cabinets, the stuff he’s neglected recently in favour of take-out and pub food, so he moves on to try and tidy up his place a bit. The garbage gets tossed into a huge bag of shame, and he takes a shower. He finds some old gifts from friends and family that he’s never used: a blank sketchbook, an unopened dress shirt, and a 23andme kit he’d forgotten about. He places them all closer to his bed. Soon, maybe. 

Grantaire looks at his bedsheets. They’re faded, and the spot in the middle where he lies all day and night has been worn threadbare. He removes that sheet and tosses it into the garbage bag, and with it the evidence of his awful sleep habits. He shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath, and feels clean for once. 

Very soon, his friends will come through his front door, and Grantaire will start to cook for them. They will laugh and joke and Grantaire will have very little to say. After all, with the haze of depression lifted for a moment, he will have no need to try and talk over the noise in his head. They will eat. They will get into a heated discussion about pizza toppings. Bahorel will crank his music over a speaker, and they will dance. The sun will set. They will receive a noise complaint and go out into the city instead. Grantaire will be okay. The sun will start to rise again, and Grantaire will fall asleep on fresh sheets with a rare smile on his face.

Right now, though, Grantaire just stands in his bedroom in the aftermath of his burst of energy, and smooths out the new linen. 

There’s a knock on his door.


	24. Crush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac and Marius. Modern era. Marius is the latest in a long series of Courfeyrac's weird roommates.

Courfeyrac’s entire university experience was characterized by a series of weird roommates. He’d hoped, now that he’s graduated, that he could move in with a friend or at least a whole normal person, but that would have been way too easy, wouldn’t it? A couple months into living with this new guy, he accepts that he’s destined to be stuck with a rotating cast of weirdos like a contestant on the world’s worst reality dating show.

New guy seemed normal when they met, if not a bit shy. He’d been disowned by grandpa or something like that, was looking for a place, and Courf was only too happy to leave his old one with the roommate who put hot sauce in smoothies. But now he gets to watch new guy hang bad posters and listen to AM/FM radio and be a liberal. So the weird roomie cycle goes on. And yet. He doesn’t hate him.

Marius is…a character. He’s a 20-year-old, stupid-innocent, friendless student who seems to be going through both his hipster and goth phases at the same time. It shouldn’t work. He should be insufferable. (And he can be, to people who aren’t Courfeyrac. His friends side-eye Marius even more than the hot sauce guy). But they hit it off anyway, and whenever Courf starts to get annoyed, Marius will say something that shows off his specific flavour of introvert’s bravery, or prove his booksmarts, or honestly just stand there and be hot, and he forgives the annoyance instantly. It’s a problem.

When September rolls around and Marius has to go back to school again, he breaks out his typewriter, of all things. Courf watches him start a paper, grumble, tear it out of the machine, crush it, and throw the crumpled thing on the ground. And then do it again. And then do it twenty-four more times. He knows, he counts them all. And as much as the old-timey typewriter noises give him a headache, there’s something so endearing about him concentrated and surrounded by scattered papers, looking like an author in a cartoon, that once again Courf can’t bring himself to be bothered about it.

Lord help him, terrible political leanings aside, he really likes Marius. Definitely not the type of person he would have guessed he’d go ride-or-die for, but here they are. Living together in an apartment with their pet typewriter and a dynamic that confounds all of his friends, and he wouldn’t change it. 

In fact, for the first time since he started living with roommates, Courf thinks he wants to keep this one.


	25. Sing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OC. Modern era. Maxime meets the ghost of a man on June 6, at the spot the barricade once stood.

From: maxime.p@parisghostwalks.com  
Date: June 6, 2019 at 02:36  
Re: Sighting off-route  
To: leonie.s@parisghostwalks.com 

Hey Léo–

Sorry to email so late, but I had an experience after my shift tonight, and you told me to report all actual sightings so I’m doing that now. I guess it could have waited until the morning or whatever, but I’m rattled and if I don’t write it now I’m gonna wake up and convince myself the whole thing was a dream, I know it wasn’t so here we go.

I finished my tour around 11:30 pm, and it was a nice night so I decided to walk home. I passed by Châtelet-Les Halles, and swung onto a side street (I wish I could tell you the name of it, I was too distracted to check. It’s around there anyway). The main area with the restaurants was loud af, and as soon as I turned off of it, it got quiet. Really, unnaturally quiet, like someone threw a blanket and a pair of headphones over my head. I looked back and everyone was still eating and chattering away like they were before, but I just couldn’t hear them.

I don’t spook easily, so I think, okay, whatever, and carry on walking, and in the shadow of a building there’s a guy leaned up against the wall in full period costume. I’m talking coat, hat, boots, rosette. He even had those big ol sideburns. I’d say mid-1800s, but I’m no expert. I assumed he was a street performer at first, but at this point it was past midnight and the guy was just standing and doing this thousand-yard stare. I guess he caught me looking, because then he turned his eyes on me. 

He had dark hair and glasses, and looked around 25, maybe? Before I had time to do anything, he smiled and said, “My friend will be glad to know you survived.” 

I went “what?” 

The guy said, “I can’t say I wish you were with us, but it is good to see you once more.” He started walking out of the shadows and towards me, but before he stepped out into the lamplight he frowned. “Apologies. I’ve mistaken you for someone else. Have a good evening.” He nodded at me and turned around. 

I didn’t want to lose this dude though, or I’d assume I hallucinated him later on. “Wait,” I said. “What’s your name?”

He paused for a few seconds before answering. “History has forgotten it, so I have as well.” 

Then–and this is the part where you’re going to think I’m mad–he walked right through the brick wall of the building. 

I stood there for a long time. My tours only go to the well-known places, so I’ve never actually seen a ghost before. Pardon the language, but it fucked me right up.

I started hearing noise again, and at first I thought it was the restaurant-goers outside again. But it was coming from the building that the dude walked into. It sounded like voices on the wind, and I tried to make out the words but couldn’t. I didn’t want to get closer to that building, either. Even though I only got nice vibes from the ghost guy, I’ve seen enough horror movies to know that getting closer is a bad move.

Eventually, I realized what the sound was. A melody, sung by a whole chorus of voices. They echoed down the entire street, and made me feel warm but terrified at the same time. Weirder than that, I recognized the melody. My grandma used to sing it to me as a kid. Where she picked it up, I have no idea.

Once I left the side street, all the normal noise of the city came back. So, I just carried on home after that. Nothing else I could do about it. I ended up trying to google ghost sightings near Les Halles, and combing the forums, but absolutely nothing. I’m not surprised, not even the people who make shit up would think of finding a post-revolution era ghost near a mall. I’m sure something else used to be there, but that’s more your area of expertise than mine, so…let me know.

Anyway. I’m working again tomorrow night, so I might head back there to check it out. Keep me posted, if you dig anything up in the meantime.

See ya soon unless I get haunted,  
Maxime Pontmercy


	26. Far

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Éponine. Modern era. She spends a lot of time on the 26 bus, dreaming of elsewhere.

Éponine’s done enough favours for the driver of the 26 that he turns a blind eye whenever she stays on the bus at the end of the route, where it loops around Place de la Nation and goes back the other way. She’ll make this round trip for hours sometimes, staring out the same window, until her driver’s shift is up or her burner pings with a text about a new job.

The 26 is warm in the winter, warmer than home or the street or the stations, and the company of the strangers on board is so much better than the company she usually keeps. Parisians–the midnight crowd, especially–don’t give too much of a shit about what their seatmates are like as long as you both keep to yourselves. She knows all the regulars here, from the nurses starting their graveyard shifts to the Sunday-morning churchgoers. They’re basically her friends.

Today Éponine leans against her window and watches the city roll by, breath fogging up the glass. She can pretend like she’s in the back of the car her parents owned when she was a kid, cozy and loved and wearing clothes that didn’t come out of a donation drive. She straightens her posture like she’s a rich lady headed to the theatre. Suddenly the bus is a carriage, and she’s the only one on it. They pass a library, a church, then a park, and she holds her imaginary parasol and observes the pedestrians and the picnickers upon the grass from her seat above them. She closes her coat made of deep blue wool and thinks about the pâtisserie she shall go to, and later the dinner she shall cook that is anything other than instant ramen.

Huh. Wouldn’t that be nice. What Éponine wouldn’t give to try one day in the life of all the high-falutin folk in this city.

Until then, she’ll have the 26. It’s neither the most comfortable home nor the most interesting place to hang out, but at least here the people are alright, the air is warm, and no one’s asking her to do anything she doesn’t want to. Besides, when you’re used to all the sights, your imagination can take you anywhere. She lets go of the image of the rich lady in a carriage and starts to dream up something new. She closes her eyes. The rumbling of the wheels on the road fades to a distant echo, and Éponine lets her mind take her far, far away.


	27. Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bossuet and Joly. Modern era. They meet for the first time.

_It was a dark and stormy night. L’Aigle de Meaux strode into a bar where he was instantly spotted by a mysterious stranger in a long black cloak, who talked in a gravelly voice like a noir detective and swept him off his feet, and then they went to bed and stuff._

Just kidding. Dark and mysterious is nowhere close to Bossuet’s type. But he’s been reading a harlequin romance, and it’s fun to imagine himself having the kind of meet-cute that never happens in the real world.

It is actually a dark and stormy night though, and Bossuet is standing under a café awning to wait for the rain to pass. Or at least pass enough to let him get home without drowning. Right now it’s showing no signs of letting up, so he leans back against the café window, pulls the harlequin out of his coat pocket, and continues reading.

_Eliza stares at the stranger as he lays his overcoat on the back of the hotel chair. His collared shirt is soaked through from the rain and she can see the bulging muscles underneath, straining so hard that they might rip the fabric. She wishes they would. She wonders how she’s never noticed this guy before, since this bar is her local haunt and those biceps would be impossible to miss on the street. The guy looks at her with his broody eyes. Wow. Damn._

The café’s entry bell rings, startling Bossuet so bad he drops the book directly into a puddle. So much for that. Oh well, he could figure out what the ending would be anyway.

Bossuet watches a guy emerge from the building. The guy is shorter than him (a rarity!), wears a mint green sweater, and walks with a cane in the exact same shade. The guy steps out, takes one look at the weather, and say, “Well, fuck.”

Then he turns and makes eye contact with him, and oh. Bossuet will never disparage a romance novel again. 

He stares for a good long while. The rain slams against the sidewalk nearby and distantly there’s a roar of thunder, but under the awning it’s dry and the café casts its welcoming glow in a rectangle on the ground. On one end of the light stands Bossuet, and the other stands this very pretty man with his dark hair and mint green ensemble, both illuminated by it.

Bossuet’s mouth might be hanging open, because then the guy laughs. It’s a nice laugh. He must do it a lot.

“You good there?” he asks.

“Uh,” Bossuet says. “Green is my favourite colour.”

Guy looks down at his sweater. “Oh, same!”

“Looks good on you.”

He looks genuinely pleased at the compliment. “Thanks. Joly, by the way.”

“I’m Lesgles. People also call me Bossuet.”

“I like it.” He smiles, and then raises his eyebrows like he’s just remembered something. “Oh! Got a light?” 

“Yeah,” he says, and digs out the lighter he’s never used, but carries for exactly this situation.

Joly takes the lighter and reaches into his pocket and he pulls out an entire handful of birthday candles and passes them to him. “Hold these.”

He takes them in a bundle between his hands, dumbfounded. Joly clicks the lighter on and ignites one of the candles on the end. He grins at him over the light.

“How many of these are there?” Bossuet asks, glazing over the more obvious ‘why’ question.

“Twenty-seven. It’s my friend’s birthday.” 

The wind picks up, and the flame leaps to an adjacent candle. “Is there a cake that they go on or something?” 

“Yep! It’s upstairs. I came out here to go get sparklers or something for it, but.” Joly points at the rain. 

The fire spreads to a few more candles, and the wax is starting to melt a bit. He suddenly feels like Wile E. Coyote holding a stick of TNT. “I think we might want to go grab it.” 

Joly realizes what’s happening and his eyes widen. “Oh no. I didn’t think this through.” 

They stare at the candles hopelessly as the individual flames become more of a small bonfire. Bossuet is not equipped for quick thinking, and it appears that neither is Joly. They look from the fire to each other.

“Well,” Joly says. “This is quite a meet-cute. But I’m gonna get help.”

Joly dashes back into the café before Bossuet can begin to react to that. He watches his figure retreat to some back room inside. He’s left once more standing under the awning on a (still) dark and stormy night, now with a handful of candles, a touch of worry, and an absolutely raging crush.

Maybe the romance novels had a point, after all.


	28. Bare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire (and Enjolras). Modern era. Grantaire, now over 50, reminisces when he finds his old sketchbook.

Grantaire places the final cardboard box on the ground inside his new place, and hopes to every deity that might be out there that this is the last time he ever has to move. His spine and knees creak in protest every time he has to bend over to pick up something else. Moving is the kind of thing made for spry youngsters of university age, not fifty-somethings like him who spend most of their time hunched over a Wacom for several hours a day. Grantaire twists and stretches and hears several pops from his spine.

When he’s done, he sits on the floor, leans back against the wall by one of the boxes, and takes in the house. The walls are an empty, boring pale yellow. He’ll fix that real soon. Once he has a bed set up at least.

“How do you feel about maroon?” he asks the house. It echoes back at him.

Grantaire sighs and pops open the nearest box, labelled ‘from storage’. He pulls out a few VHSs, a huge tangle of random cables, and a pile of textbooks he never read and neglected to sell–now decades out of date. He picks up a battered, ring-bound notebook, and his hand suddenly stills. 

It’s been forever since he thought of this, and even longer since he last held it. He looks at the cover with trepidation, but his curiosity wins out, and he cracks the notebook open. 

The smell of the pages hits him first. Suddenly he’s in his twenties again, it’s a weeknight evening, he’s three beers deep; putting pencil to page and doodling whatever the hell comes to mind while he rants and raves about literally nothing. 

The first page is a doodle of a salt shaker with a face. The next is a fat pigeon. The third is an entire collection of photorealistic dicks. He chuckles at his past self and keeps flipping past several more pages of similarly silly art. From there the collection goes through a phase of increasingly elaborate bouncy castles, and then moves on to portraits.

The first one is of Enjolras, of course, and even now his heart clenches at it. He quickly flips past that page. The next few are of Joly and Bossuet, grinning in every sketch. God, they were young here. Bossuet is beardless and has no glasses, and there are no laughter lines on Joly’s face. It’s been almost a year since they last met up, Grantaire should really shoot them a message. 

All his old friends are in this book at least once, committed to paper when they were all kids and all could see each other once a week. He wishes he knew the exact date they were last together. He would have written it down and remembered the entire thing, but there was no way to know it would have been the last. It came and went, and life just…carried on. Some friends got married and some left the country, some he still talks to and others he only sees sometimes on the news.

The last filled page in his notebook is a jaunty cartoon of Bahorel in a boxing ring with a goose. From start to finish, there are hundreds of drawings, and they must only have spanned less than a decade. There are twenty-eight pages at the end of the book that are bare. Grantaire wishes he could remember why.

He sets the notebook aside, picks up his phone, and scrolls through his Facebook friends. Enjolras’ name catches his attention. They never spoke after the group drifted. He considered it years back, but never did, and after a long, long time Grantaire got over him. To an extent, at least–every time his face comes up on a TV interview his heart still lurches in his chest. The same way it does now, while looking at his profile. Honestly. Grantaire should be too old for this kind of shit.

He hits the message button, and before he can convince himself not to, writes, _you live in town still?_

The response comes a few minutes later. _Yes. Weird coincidence, was thinking of you today. Want to meet up?_

He nearly drops the phone in shock. All at once he’s that kid again. A little less stupid now, hopefully, but he’s still him. _yeah for sure. where/when_

_Musain’s still open. I just moved and need a break from unpacking. 2 hours from now?_

Grantaire swallows the feeling bubbling up in his throat. _i’ll be there_

_See you soon._

Grantaire spends the next hour furiously getting ready, showering, dressing, fixing his hair and lamenting the greys. Just before he goes to leave, he looks back at the notebook he left on the floor. He stops. Considers. Then he grabs it and a pencil, and shoves it into his inside pocket. He’d hate to leave it unfinished, now that he’s found it again after all this time.


	29. Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre and Enjolras. Modern era. Combeferre spends a semester abroad.

> August 18

[Combeferre]: Just landed.

[Enjolras]: And so begins the longest semester of my life. How was the flight

[Combeferre]: I slept through most of it. And you’ll be fine.

[Enjolras]: I don’t think I can wrangle everyone without your help

[Combeferre]: I’ll send a disapproving picture of myself. You may print it and hold it up when you want silence in meetings. 

[Combeferre]: IMG_2314.jpg

[Enjolras]: My god. You’re a lifesaver

> October 14

[Combeferre]: I taught the kids words for different foods today. They’ve taken to calling me Mr. Corn. Anyway how’s your semester going?

[Enjolras]: Busy as usual, Mr. Corn. How are your students

[Combeferre]: They’re great, except for that one name. And the meetings? 

[Enjolras]: Alright. Not as productive without you there, but the picture really helps. Thank you Mr. Corn

[Combeferre]: Are you also one of my 9-year-old students? Enjolras? Is that what you are?

[Enjolras]: No Mr. Corn, I’m just a person who finds that nickname very funny and will never let you live it down

[Combeferre]: Oh nooo, my phone’s at 29%. It’s about to die. Looks like I have to talk to you later. 

[Enjolras]: What? That’s not even low

[Enjolras]: Mr. Corn come back

[Enjolras]: Mr. Corn don’t leave me hanging

> November 8

[Combeferre]: Sorry. Been busy.

[Enjolras]: I really thought you were mad at me for that 

[Combeferre]: What? No, it was hilarious. 

[Enjolras]: I couldn’t even look at corn for a whole week

[Combeferre]: Amaizeing. 

[Enjolras]: Good god

> November 19

[Enjolras]: Miss having you around

[Combeferre]: Yeah. me too.

> December 2

[Enjolras]: What time is it over there

[Combeferre]: Midnight. You?

[Enjolras]: 4 pm. Time zones are odd

[Combeferre]: Aren’t they? I spend a lot of time thinking about what it would be like if they didn’t exist. If 3 pm meant it was 3 pm everywhere, but in some places it meant the sun was high in the sky and in others it meant some point during the night. Expressions like ‘high noon’ and ‘midnight’ and ‘9 to 5’ would lose meaning. Every time you travelled far enough you wouldn’t have to adjust your watch, but adjust your expectations of what each hour meant. Would we gain anything new from a different system? And what would we lose? 

[Enjolras]: Sleep, apparently. Don’t you have class tomorrow?

[Combeferre]: All I’m saying is that the invention of the sundial set us on a certain path and we’ve never even tried to look back.

[Enjolras]: So I am absolutely going to be thinking about this for the rest of the day, but please get some rest Mr. Corn

[Combeferre]: Since you asked so cor(n)dially 

[Enjolras]: How do you come up with these

> December 22

[Combeferre]: I’m leaving for the airport now, see you soon.

[Enjolras]: Oh I know, I’ve been counting down. Have a safe flight, we’ll talk more when you get back

[Combeferre]: I look forward to it.


	30. Flag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac and Enjolras. Modern era. When they met: playing a game as children.

Courfeyrac _knows_ he’s the fastest kid in class, and he loudly says so to the rest of the blue team as they huddle up. He _can’t_ be on guard duty, that would be a waste! Everyone knows you’re supposed to send your best sprinters into the other team’s territory and keep the kids who don’t like gym class on defense. It’s basic strategy.

“But I don’t wanna stand around,” says The Annoying One. 

“I’m team captain,” Courfeyrac says, and tries to look taller than the 4’ 2” that he is. “You’re doing it because I say so.” 

The Annoying One pouts, and Courfeyrac’s about to feel bad about it, when The Quiet One speaks up. 

“Standing around is a very important job,” The Quiet One says. “Without you here to guard our flag, the runners can’t run and we lose. We need you here.”

“Really?” Annoying One asks. 

Courfeyrac nods a bunch. 

“Okay,” he says. 

Courfeyrac shoots a grateful look at The Quiet One. “Okay. Hands in the centre, and on three, ‘Team Blue’. One, two, three–”

“Team Blue!” everyone yells. Two of the kids wander off to plant their flag, and Courfeyrac starts stretching and getting ready to run with The Quiet One. 

“Thanks,” Courfeyrac says to him. “What’s your name?” 

“Enjolras.”

He nods. “You can be my co-captain.”

“Okay.”

The teacher gives them a 30-second warning, and Courfeyrac starts to scan the field. He spots the red team’s flag off in the distance, with only no one there guarding it. The whistle blows, and Courfeyrac takes off in a dead sprint, Enjolras only a little bit behind him. His hands close on the flagpole almost immediately. He rips it out of the ground and starts to run back, when three of the red team emerge from behind trees and come towards him all at once. 

“Uh oh.” Courfeyrac sprints again, but the flag weighs him down and the fabric drags in the wind. 

“Captain!” Enjolras yells. He’s running a few yards ahead, back to their territory, and has his arms out. “Throw it to me!” 

Courfeyrac wants to be the one to win this for them. He’s captain, and deserves it. But the three red team kids are gaining on him, and Enjolras seems smart AND fast. He holds the flagpole up, swings it horizontal, and launches it like a javelin. Enjolras catches it easily and keeps running. The flag unwraps and flies behind him as he does, and Courfeyrac grins as he allows himself to be caught, because Enjolras is about to cross into their territory. 

Enjolras runs over the line, the teacher blows her whistle, and their team cheers. Enjolras keeps running. He waves the flag back and forth over his head. 

“For the people! For the people!” he chants. 

Courfeyrac bursts out laughing at him. What a weirdo. He decides immediately that Enjolras is gonna be his best friend.

—–

“Was that really the first time we talked?” Enjolras asks, nearly two decades later. “Capture the flag?”

“Yep. I remember it because I called you The Quiet One before that. Also because you’re still literally the exact same person, except you’re the captain now.”

“You haven’t changed either.” 

“I think I’m taller.”

Enjolras snorts. “Not by much.”

Courfeyrac kicks him in the knee. “You weren’t this sassy when we were eight, though.” 

“No. I learned that from you.”


	31. Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A letter by Marius and Cosette. Canon era. To preserve the memories of those who died in the June Rebellion.

To the finder of this cache:

We write to you from the year 1845. Enclosed in this container you will find artifacts which to you may seem of little consequence, but which belonged to some of the bravest men who lived, and whose memories we have aimed to preserve for some years. Some items were more easily acquired than others. Some have great monetary value, and some hold only the value ascribed to them by knowledge of their origin. All are deserving of preservation.

We cannot know when this cache shall be found, but do imagine that it will be some decades or centuries before this land is excavated. As such we believe that their names and faces will have been long lost in your time, as they have already all but disappeared in ours. They are those who fought and died in the June Rebellion of 1832. 

-

The following is a list of the artifacts and to whom each artifact belonged, written by Marius.

A book, _On the Cultivation of Native & Foreign Flora_ by M. Mabeuf. Purchased from a bookstore in Paris. M. Mabeuf was a kind man, without whom I never would have known any other person mentioned herein. He loved his garden and his books, and was forced to give up both due to debts accrued by unfortunate circumstance. He was the first to die on the barricade at Rue de la Chanvrerie, on 5 June.

A waistcoat, made for a man named Bahorel. Some buttons removed from further waistcoats. Given by the parents of M. Bahorel. He was strong, enjoyed a joke, and enjoyed the act of fighting itself, most of all against those who rule. He lived well. He died on 5 June. 

The flute of Jean Prouvaire. Retrieved from his rooms.

A collection of verses by Jean Prouvaire. Retrieved from his rooms. Jean Prouvaire was a quiet man, and I did not know him well, other than to know that in the very face of death he stood proud and true to his cause. He died on 5 June. 

A watch belonging to Lesgle. Given to us by his mistress. Legle, also called many other names, was above all else full of gayety. Even on the barricade, even when it should have been somber, he laughed, and we were all the better for it. He died on 6 June.

A fan made by Feuilly. Purchased from a shop in Paris. Feuilly cared about all the people of the world, who he treated as his own family. He was generous, wished everyone would learn history to know the present, and did what he could to teach. He died on 6 June.

A book with an inscription by Courfeyrac in the front cover. Gifted to me in ‘31.

A coat once owned by Courfeyrac. Gifted to me in ‘28. Courfeyrac was the warmest soul and my dearest friend. Everyone loved him. No one could speak ill of him. He brought me to his home when I had none, and gave me his coat when mine wore thin. He died on 6 June.

A pencil drawing of Joly with a duck atop his head. Retrieved from his rooms. Joly was a medical student and a lover of merriment. He never allowed his worry to prevent him from taking action or enjoying all he could. He died on 6 June.

A variety of drawings and observations, made in childhood by Combeferre. Given to me by his father. Combeferre is one of the wisest men I have known. Once, I made a long and passionate argument on something I believed, and in the uttering of three words he made me question all that I had said. There is much to be gleaned of his character from that alone. He died on 6 June.

A painting of sorts by Grantaire. Retrieved from his rooms. Already damaged on retrieval. I did not meet Grantaire on the barricade, and I did not know him other than to know he spoke plenty and drank more, but was pleasant enough company. We have learned he too died on 6 June.

A pamphlet in denunciation of the king, written by Enjolras in ‘30. Retrieved from the Café Musain. Enjolras was the leader of this group. He loved this country and its citizens more than he loved anything else, and would have died one hundred times over to see them free. I have never met someone more readily followed than him. He died on 6 June.

-

There are yet others who died on this barricade whose names we never learned, and those whose possessions were no more than the clothes on their bodies at the time of their death. There was a young child, Gavroche, who died singing, and a girl, Éponine, who saved my life but gave up her own. They too are worthy of memory even if there is nothing material that remains of them.

All we may ask of you, a citizen of the world living ten, twenty, five hundred years from now, is that you will remember who these people were. There are few even today who remember their names, what they believed in, and how they fought for the freedom of us all. Each was a good soul taken prematurely from the world. Each gave up their life for the love of a future they would never know, and we only wish that the future they so loved may love them in return.

Sincerely,

Marius & Cosette Pontmercy  
6 June 1845

P.S. We hope, whenever you receive this, that your time is a happier one than ours. If it is not, look for those who will fight to make it so. They are your tomorrow, as people like Enjolras are ours.

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted from [my tumblr](https://grantairelibere.tumblr.com/).


End file.
